The Final Confession of Mabel Stark: A Novel (An Evergreen book) (29 page)

When Al G. finally brought me back to the train it was after one
in the morning and I was drunk as a skunk and, for the first time in my
life, wishing I could slough the next day's matinee off on someone else.
Maybe it was the high time Al G. and I had just had, or maybe it was
the fact I was going to be leaving soon, both of which are states of
affairs that make people do things they've always wanted to do but
never realized they wanted to.

What I'm saying is: I came a hair's breadth from inviting Al G. in,
though thank God before the words came out of my mouth I gave my
head a rattle and contented myself with a quick sisterly peck on the
cheek. "Good night, Al G." were the last words out of my mouth. I
went inside my stateroom, at first being quiet so as not to rouse Rajah,
but then thinking the comfort of a body warm and soft was just the
thing I needed. I undressed and got under the covers and stroked
Rajah's cat ears, and as he started to purr I helped myself to some rubbing that made the front of me slick with coat oil.

Next day, the jump was to a place called Clinton, Illinois, and
after that the circus started making long jumps south, training straight
through the west tip of Kentucky and down through Mississippi before
entering the state of Florida during a tropical storm that turned the
Barnes show into a regular old mud show-we put a full ton of tanbark
down on the midway and when it sank into the quagmire we switched
to straw and when this didn't work we finally resorted to hay, only to
see it eaten up by the mud and rain as well. Didn't matter, though. Folks
couldn't get enough of the circus, and not only did the houses get filled
but they got filled by people wanting to lighten their pockets. That year everyone on the show made more money than they would've ever
thought possible, from the candy butchers to the chameleon vendors to
the sideshow freaks. There were grifters who made so much money
they left the show mid-season to buy small farms or ranches, saying
they were bound and determined to straighten up and fly right and
maybe even have a kid or two. Most were back by the end of the year,
having lost their deeds in high-stakes poker games and looking not at
all regretful.

From Talahassee and Baton Rouge we were on to Natchez,
Mississipi, followed by Port Gibson and Vicksburg and Greenville and
Clarksdale before making a 123-mile Sunday jump to Wynne,
Arkansas, where cold damp weather again had no effect on the size of
the houses. This was followed by another hundred-plus mile jump, this
time to a place called Yellville, Kansas; seems the Yellvillians had never
seen a live hippo before, and they were so fascinated by Lotus we could
barely get them out of the menage to start the main performance. Then
it was on to Colorado, Utah and Nevada before winding our way back
into the state of California via the north end.

Now, all this is a matter of public record. What Billboard and
White Tops and the dailies didn't know is in the top end of Mississippi,
in a town called Holly Springs, Miss Leonora Speeks left the Al G.
Barnes 4-Ring Wild Animal Circus. No one knew why-was a rumour
her mother had passed away, something no one believed for she looked
more aggrieved than grieved. All we knew is one day she was Al G.'s
big-hipped wife and the next she was standing outside Al G.'s rail car,
surrounded by trunks and suitcases and dress bags and hat boxes, looking exceedingly wronged. When her car came she let the driver move
every piece of luggage while she stood looking impatient. Then she got
in, flashing a last bit of leg for the workingmen.

There was one other thing Billboard and White Tops didn't know.
While the well-endowed Miss Speeks prepared a divorce suit back in
Oregon, Al G. Barnes, a man whose fortunes were growing by leaps and bounds, was turning his attentions to a certain blond tiger trainer
whose fetching days may or may not've been behind her.

If there was a particularly good performance, say I'd gotten
another cat to ball roll or sit up, there'd be flowers and a congratulatory note. Sometimes he'd come in the cookhouse when I was eating and
sit with me; this gave me the status of management and was therefore
hard not to appreciate. During an evening show someplace in
Colorado, one of the cats, Lady was her name, got a little pissed off
about something and took a swipe at my arm. It wasn't serious, though
her nails had taken a good rip out of my white leather bodysuit. Instead
of having Mrs. Mac, the head of wardrobe, stitch it up, I came back to
my car and found three brand-new leather suits with a note from Al G.
saying he couldn't afford to have his star act looking dingy out there
(even if it was only for the rest of the year).

Then. During a matinee in Carson City I finally got that evil little Sumatran to ball walk. It'd taken over two years of gentling and was
something you do for personal satisfaction only-though Billboard
made a brief mention of jewel's new trick, the vast majority of rubes
never realized it was a trick once considered impossible, given how
mean and pouncy Sumatrans are. Al G. noticed, though. Two mornings
later, I was sitting in my car, resting, when there was a knock on the
door. Al G. was standing there, alone. He was carrying a round cardboard tube.

"Good morning, Kentucky."

"Morning."

"Do you mind if I come in?"

"No," I said, stepping aside. "Please do."

He walked in, all smiles, saying, "I thought you might like to see
my newest paper."

I said I would, and he walked over to Louis's old desk and pulled
the master copy of a poster from the tube and laid it on the desk, flattening it down by leaning on it with either hand. I walked over and so did Rajah, who sensed something interesting was about to happen. I
stood to Al G.'s left, and Rajah planted his forepaws to Al G.'s right,
something that made Al G. a little nervous for he always believed it was
only a matter of time before Rajah started acting like a normal tiger.

I looked down. My eyes turned misty.

The line running across the bottom of the poster read, "The
Queen of the Jungle Presents a Notable Congress of the Earth's Most
Ferocious Performing Lions and Tigers." Above it was a picture of my
face, filling the whole poster. Furthermore, it was my face before I'd
had accidents, back when I was unscarred and perfect, skin like porcelain, eyes as blue as Kentucky skies. Was like my face when I was eighteen, and as I looked at it one word kept popping into my head.

Before. Before before before.

Plus the poster was gold. The border was gold and my hair was
gold and my uniform was gold, thick and pure and solid. This was
something that never happened back then, gold being a colour printers
had a tough time with, and it must've cost Al G. a fortune. But there I
was, smiling and beautiful and eighteen again, in the first gold poster
ever in the history of the circus. Was sheer stupidity, Al G. only being
able to use it for another two months, but it was a stupidity that made
me feel warm and wanted, and that's a feeling few women can resist.
Even Rajah started purring, though I had to keep him away from the
poster so he wouldn't paw it to shreds.

Later that week, when we pulled into San Franciso, Al G. took me
to dinner again. Was a lot like the first time, there being a violinist and
French on the menu and each wine a different colour than the wine previous. By the time we hit the meat course there was no doubt what was
going to transpire when we returned to the train, something that made
the rest of the meal practically solemn. We skipped dessert and rode
back to the train in silence. We stopped in front of the Holt car, and he
held the door for me. I took a good look around while Al G. poured
apple brandy: the ceiling was dark wood and there were brass fixtures and a huge polar bear rug covering a floor made from beech. There was
a hearth and a dining table for eight. The bed he escorted me to was
framed in mahogany.

We never even sipped our drinks, for what commenced was a flurry of kissing and clothing removal, and the next thing I knew I was on
my back, naked except for my jewellery, thankful the lights were dim
and Al G. couldn't see my scars. Took his time, he did. I could tell he
considered himself a Casanova of the highest order, for there were
flourishes and fine touches and figure eights that simply didn't need to
be there. He even suckled a part of me I thought men simply wouldn't,
the sensation being one of astonishment more than anything else.
Suppose I shouldn't complain, for there was a sureness and a slowness
I'd never noted in a man before. Plus he was so handsome he didn't even
lose his looks when it came to that moment, a time when most men's
faces tend to flap slightly and lose their definition. He was gentle about
it, too, meaning it all took a while, such that when he finally sped up and
yelled, "Oh my Sweet Dinah," I was starting to feel a mild cramping in
my upturned legs. To make him feel better I called out myself, something to do with the heavens above, and dug my nails into his shoulders.

Was then he pulled off me and a strange thing happened. With no
more lust or desire between us, the situation attained a clarity and
announced itself as surely as a new day announces itself. At exactly the
same moment, we both understood why we were together, in Al G.
Barnes's sumptuous rail car, and with that came a weight. It settled over
us like a bank of heat. Was a weight that talked, too, meaning we didn't have to say a thing, the weight having the conversation for us.

Him: You still joining the Ringling show?

Me: You still refusing to sell Rajah?

Him and me, chiming together like a choir: Yes.

I dressed in silence, feeling slutty and used and guilty Al G. probably
felt the same way. At the door I took a quick glance over my shoulder and had a last look at that handsome, handsome man, lying naked under
a sheet, looking up at the ceiling, barely able to believe he hadn't got
what he'd wanted. It must've been a shock to his system. Was the only
time I ever saw him looking sad (and it still strikes me as odd that Al G.
looking sad is the Al G. I picture whenever he comes to mind).

And what of me? What of Mary Haynie slash Mary Williams
slash Mabel Roth slash Mabel Stark, soon-to-be Ringling star? What
did I do? Went back to my car and pushed my face into Rajah's fur and
bawled at the prospect of leaving him. Rajah woke but he didn't get
playful or mad. He just lay there, quiet and listening, maybe licking his
lips a few times. Was this bit of comfort that made me decide I couldn't do without him. So I got up and dressed and threw a few clothes into
a bag and got Rajah off the bed and put a leash on him. I opened the
door to my car and looked both ways.

The problem was I'd never stolen anything in my life, and if
you're going to steal something as big as a 550-pound tiger it's good to
get some practise beforehand. After all these years of hard work and
trying to stabilize my life, here I was, in the dark, readying to flee, relying on nothing but reflexes and pluck again. Was a misery there I had
to ignore if I was going to get this done, so I bucked myself up and
whispered, "Come on, Rajah, there's a good boy." Doggone it if Rajah
didn't pick that moment to grow a sudden attachment to the Al G.
Barnes Circus, for he looked over his shoulder and gawked at the train
and his whiskers turned down like a person regretful. Or maybe he saw
the foolishness of a woman and her tiger just wandering off planless
into a dark field, animals sometimes showing an instinct for preservation that most humans lack. Whatever it was, he planted his royal
orange-and-black haunches. Just sat them in the dirt and refused
to budge.

"C'mon, Rajah," I hissed, pulling hard on his leash. "Come on."

Course, there's no way even a large man can move an animal the
size of a full-grown Bengal, though in times of desperation simple facts tend to get lost in the kerfuffle. By the time another half-minute of tugging had gone by, I was at a forty-five-degree angle from the ground,
pulling with all my might, feet digging into the dirt, pleading through
tears, "C'mon baby please please please we have to go...."

And then Dan appeared out of nowhere.

"Mabel," came a voice.

I stopped heaving, looked up and saw him, his expression saying
what I was doing was cheap and felonious and worthy of pity all at the
same time. I couldn't believe it. I hadn't even gotten off the lot and the
jig was up. Feeling as though a pinprick had let any and all energy out
of me I dropped the leash and half fell and half sat in the dirt. I couldn't
look at Dan or Rajah, could only sit with my elbows on my knees and
my face in my hands, feeling like an old scarred woman, even though
I'd barely cracked thirty. Didn't even cry, for I didn't have the gumption, and believe me that's about the worst way in the world a person
can feel.

Time got lazy playing itself out. It felt like we stayed in those
positions, frozen like chess pieces, for minutes and minutes, though it
was probably just seconds. Throughout, Dan just stood there, monitoring, while Rajah panted and for some damn reason looked pleased.
Finally, I just got up and walked back to the rail car and left the door
open, and when Rajah followed me in I closed the door and told him in
a sharp voice he was sleeping on the floor.

I slept heavily and dreamless that night, and then woke late, feeling achy and tired. By the time I got to the lot Red had done more than
half the work, which was bad for he was already mad enough at me for
getting friendly with Al G. and not him.

What happened then is still a mystery. Maybe Dan had had a
word with Al G. Maybe Al G. had stopped to consider how I'd feel if
Rajah was taken from me. Or maybe he woke up remembering a circus
owner is a businessman, first and foremost, and that the moment I left
for the Ringling show Rajah would pretty much be worthless. Or (and this was the one I found the likeliest), maybe he couldn't stand the
prospect of leaving a bad taste in a woman's mouth, particularly one
he'd been with the previous night. All I know is I found an envelope
with my name on it stuck to the door of my Pullman room. I opened it.
Was an offer to sell Rajah the Wrestling Tiger for $10,000, roughly
twenty-five times what a healthy trained adult Bengal went for in 1920.